Simon Fruelund
is the author of two story collections and two novels. In the US his
work has appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Brooklyn Review,
and Redivider.

K.E. Semmel is a
writer and translator whose work has appeared in Ontario Review, the
Washington Post, Hayden's Ferry Review, and elsewhere. For his work with
Simon Fruelund's fiction, he is a recipient of a translation grant from
the Danish Arts Council.

Semmel says: "'Phosphorescence' is from Simon Fruelund's debut collection,
Maelk (1997). In lean, spare prose--characteristic of the stories
in Maelk--Fruelund dramatizes the simultaneous closeness and
distance of human relationships."

They
sat on the keel of a
dinghy that was lying on
the beach. Thomas
was drunk and happy. He
sat leaning back,
supporting himself with
his hands; he tilted his
head back and gazed up.
Jon looked straight off
into the night. He could
see the foam of the low
surf and hear the
pebbles murmuring as the
water pulled back out to
sea.

—I can’t find it,
Thomas said.

—What? Jon said.

—The Big Dipper.

—Does it matter?

—Yeah.

Thomas leaned
forward and took the
wine bottle from Jon’s
hand.

—Have some wine,
Jon said.

Jon looked at the
surf and Thomas leaned
his head back.

They sat like that
for a while.

—All the big
things, Thomas said
suddenly. For some
reason, we can only get
close to them in images.

—What?

—Take the stars,
for example. We can’t
see them the way they
are, we arrange them
into constellations.
It’s the same with
death, or having a
child. What can you say?
But if you can find the
right imagery.
—Yeah.

—Life is great,
Thomas said.

—Maybe I’m not
drunk enough.

—C’mon, stop
whining.

Thomas handed him
the bottle; Jon leaned
his head back and looked
for the Big Dipper as he
drank.

—I can see two, he
said. He pointed with
the bottle. A small one
up here and a bigger one
there.

—No way, Thomas
said.

Jon pointed again.

—God damn, you’re
right.

Thomas glanced from
one to the other.

—Maybe we should go
inside and wake up the
others. Tell them we’ve
made an astronomical
discovery.

—I think Charlotte
wants to sleep, Jon
said.

—Isn’t Vivian just
fucking beautiful.

—Yeah, Jon said.
She’s pretty amazing.
You’re really lucky.

—Everything’s just
a matter of luck. It’s
all chance.

—Yes, Jon said.

—Charlotte is
beautiful too. She’s a
really nice girl.

Thomas stood and
pulled his T-shirt over
his head.

—C’mon, he said.
Let’s go swimming. He
unzipped his pants and
pulled them down all the
way to his shoes. Then
he sat down on the boat
and untied his laces. A
moment later he stood
naked before Jon.

—Don’t you think
it’s too cold?
—Not at all. It’s
never been warmer.

—And don’t you
think you’re too drunk?

—Hell no.

Thomas turned and
ran toward the sea. Jon
could see Thomas’ body
standing out white
against the dark water.
Thomas ran until the
darkness reached his
knees. A ways out, the
water was shallow. A
splash. After that Jon
saw Thomas in glimpses,
a foot, a white arm, the
upper part of his back.
Then there was only the
sound left, the rhythmic
strokes and now and then
a splash from his feet.
Then even the sounds
fell silent, drowned out
by the beating of the
waves and by Jon’s own
breathing.

A moment later Jon
got up
and walked down
to the water. Rocks and
shells bitinto
his feet. He stared into
the darkness.
The moon gave the sea a
thin, flickering sheen
of light. Below the
surface the water was
dark, and seemed darker
than usual because the
lights played tricks
with his eyes.

Some time passed.

Then he called out,

—Thomas.

—Thomas! he called
out even louder.

—Thomas, he called
out a third time.

All the way out by
the third sandbank, an
arm appeared.

—C’mon! There’s…
The wind carried the
last part of the
sentence away.

—What? Jon shouted.

—Come on out here.
There’s phosphor.

Jon pulled off his
jeans. He shrugged off
his white T-shirt, then
his underwear; they
landed on top of the
pile on the beach a few
feet from the water.

The water was
surprisingly warm, even
a bit warmer than the
air. Jon saw a swarm of
small glowing particles
at his feet; he bent
down, and scooped up a
handful of water,
letting it fall. The
phosphor flashed
briefly, then fell into
the darkness. He
squatted down and drove
his hand through the
water; it took on a
green sheen and looked
bigger. He pulled it up
and then put it back in
again. Then he stood,
took a couple steps, and
began to run. He ran
until he couldn’t
anymore, and then let
himself fall headfirst
into the water, dived
and crawled with long,
calm strokes. For each
stroke he turned his
head, taking in air from
the left and breathing
out to the right.

On the second
sandbank the water was
too shallow for him to
swim, and he got up and
walked a few steps. He
looked out towards the
third sandbank but
couldn’t see his
brother. He hurled
himself forward.

When he reached the
last sandbank he let his
feet sink down, and
looked around. Thomas
was nowhere in sight;
Jon spun around, ran an
arm through the water,
and swirled the
phosphor. Just then, he
felt something grab hold
of his right foot. He
fell backwards and felt
the water gush up his
nose and into his
sinuses. A moment later
he got back on his feet.
He threw himself at
Thomas and tried to dunk
his head under the
water. Thomas got away
from him and shoved a
handful of water in his
face. Jon threw himself
forward again and this
time he managed to grab
Thomas’s hair with both
hands. He pressed
Thomas’s head under
water and held it there
a few seconds.

—Truce? he said, as
he pulled Thomas back
up.

—Truce, Thomas
said, smiling.

Jon let him go and
Thomas splashed him
again with water.

—Stop it.

—What’s wrong with
you? Thomas said,
pressing his hands
together and shoving
saltwater against Jon.

Jon leapt forward
and swam away
underwater. He had
barely emerged when
Thomas was on him again.

Jon took two steps
away from Thomas, then
turned and smacked him
across the cheek. Thomas
grabbed his hand before
he managed to pull it
away. They stood
motionless across from
each other.

—Look at me, Thomas
said.

—Sorry, Jon said.

—Look at me, Thomas
said.

—It’s not enough
that I say I’m sorry?

—No.

Jon looked at him.

—Now tell me what’s
wrong?

Jon exhaled and
stared up at the stars.
He glanced toward
Thomas, fastening his
gaze at a point just
above his eyes.

—I don’t know.

—You don’t know?

—Maybe I shouldn’t
have come.

—Why?
—I don’t know. I
just shouldn’t have
come.

Thomas still had a
solid grip on Jon’s
wrist. They stood
opposite each other, the
water reaching their
chests. The water was
dark and still, and the
phosphorescence had
subsided. They stood
without speaking for
almost a minute.

—Don’t you ever
miss him? Jon finally
said.

—Who?

—Who do you think?

Thomas let go of
Jon’s hand.

—Of course I miss
him, he said.

—I can’t help
thinking of him now that
we’re here.

—Why?

—I don’t know.
Maybe because it was
here he was happiest.
That’s what everyone
says.

—Of course I think
about him, Thomas said.
But not all the time. It
comes and goes.

Jon drew a hand
through the water and
the phosphor sparkled.

—I’m freezing,
Thomas said. Let’s swim
back.

They swam slowly
toward the beach, side
by side with three or
four feet between them.

Jon took a few
powerful strokes, then
let himself sink under
the water. He squeezed
his eyes shut to keep
the water out. He lay
against the bottom, sand
scraping against his
chest. Soon after he
surfaced for air.

Thomas had stood
and waded through the
shallow water a few
steps ahead. Jon
followed.

They hadn’t brought
any towels. They grabbed
their clothes and ran
toward the house. The
sand on the path was
cool on their feet, and
there was a smell of
heather and resin in the
air. They sprinted
across the yard.

The towels hung on
a clothesline drawn
between two birch trees.
They dried quickly, and
pulled on their
underwear and T-Shirts.

Before Jon opened
the door to the house,
he glanced at Thomas.

—Look, I’m sorry…

—It’s all right,
Thomas said. No need to
apologize.

—We’re going home
tomorrow, Charlotte and
I.

—Okay.

Jon opened the door
and walked into the
low-ceilinged living
room.

—Sleep well, he
said, before they
parted.

Jon crawled into
bed beside Charlotte.
She turned in her sleep
and clutched his thumb.
He arranged his duvet
and blanket with his
free hand, and gradually
he warmed up. From the
bed he could make out
the photograph of his
father, which was
hanging on the wall. The
picture, set in a thin
silver frame, had been
taken down by the beach.
He was wearing an
Icelandic sweater and
was staring directly at
the camera. Before long
Jon heard the bed squeal
in the room next to his; then he heard a
low, rhythmic moan. He
couldn’t decide if it
was coming from Vivian
or his brother. After a
while he realized it was
coming from
Vivian.